A journey into the heart of Mexico City

In other words: To get to and from her day job, Olga spends up to eight hours travelling on public transport every day. The story of her daily obstacle course highlights the surreal nature of everyday life in our country.

Her commute begins with a bus that she takes to the metro stop. It takes half an hour, sometimes longer if there are roadworks and heavy traffic, an accident or a flooded road, as often happens during the rainy season. Fortunately, Olga knows the way. If she didn't, she'd have to consult a map of Mexico City's transport network, but, the fact is, such a document is an urban legend. Some people claim that it exists, but no one has ever seen it. Others say it hasn't been invented yet and have set themselves the impossible task of designing it. The city council keeps promising to have one made next year. Or the year after that.

“Nobody knows the entire pesero network. Someone with this knowledge would probably be revered as an oracle”

There are plans for state-run systems such as the Metro and Metrobus, which transport around six million people a day. But the city is so big that you can, at best, get vaguely close to your destination with these official means of transport: you never quite make it to where you actually want to go. The majority of journeys are therefore made using “peseros”, minibuses that form a semi-official transport network. It is not organised by the authorities, but by the so-called “pulpo camionero”, or the “transport network octopus”.

These are a handful of businessmen who negotiate concessions with the city council and divide up the routes among themselves, on which the more than 16,000 peseros travel from one end of the metropolis to the other. In order to find your way around Mexico City, you have to rely on oral tradition. If you want to get from A to B in the metropolis and don't know your route, you have to ask the driver, other passengers or even the street vendors and newspaper sellers at their stalls.

This is the only way to discover which minibus you need to get to your destination. Pesero routes are created one day, only to suddenly disappear the next - they depend on the volume of traffic, road works and how the negotiations between the various concession holders have gone recently.

Nobody knows the entire pesero network. Someone with this knowledge would probably be revered as an oracle. The pesero is an ode to local folklore. There are no fixed stops, you simply look out for a vehicle travelling the right route: “Merced - Santo Domingo”, “Tacuba - Pantitlán”, “Cuemanco - Salto del Agua”. Requests to stop the bus are signalled by ringing a bell - if it works. Sometimes a rubber chicken dangles from the ceiling and squeaks when you press it.

“The pesero is an ode to local folklore. There are no fixed stops, you simply look out for a vehicle travelling the right route”

Every corner, every stretch of pavement, can serve as a pesero stop, although the term is an oxymoron: the buses don't actually stop at all, they just slow down to a speed at which people can jump out of the moving vehicle. It is estimated that one pesero feeds up to three or four families. Some vehicles are in a dreadful state, others are cherished, cared for and decorated by their owners: they adorn them with customised seat covers,  tribal or cholo stickers with slogans and motifs from Mexican youth and subculture.

They install hi-fi systems worth 10,000 pesos (around 500 euros). Some boast colourful lights that flash to the rhythm of cumbia, with its African, indigenous and Spanish elements that forms the soundtrack to the journey. Some pesero owners even install horns that play music, blasting the tune of “The Godfather” through the crowded streets.

The big problem with these “rolling coffins”, as they are known, is that they are unsafe. The drivers are notorious for their so-called carreritas, small races with other buses on their routes, also known as the “centavo war”: a fierce battle to see who can transport more passengers and thus earn more money per day.

The buses themselves are a hive of activity, with flying traders, improvised pantomime shows, musicians, clowns and scroungers. Some of them also make little speeches, like this: “Good afternoon, please excuse the short interruption. I have three children and until recently I was in prison for armed robbery. Now I'm trying to get my life back on track. Perhaps one of you would like to support me today with a small donation, whatever you can find it in your heart to give...”

Underlying the comment is the tacit threat that the beggar could revert to his previous business if passengers don't contribute. And a clown is difficult to recognise in a police line-up once the make-up has come off. Olga has already been robbed at gunpoint several times.

“The unofficial means of transport forms a window into the soul of the city and, like the metropolis itself, is in a state fo constant flux”

In the part of the state she travels through before reaching the capital, violent robberies are so common that the bandits now simply get on the bus with their guns and a familiar slogan: “Hello gentlemen, you know the drill, mobile phones and wallets out ... And don’t forget your watch, my friend!”

The unofficial means of transport forms a window into the soul of the city and, like the metropolis itself, is in a state fo constant flux. Nevertheless, a few maps of some pesero lines have been created with the help of new technologies such as Google Maps or Wikiando, a digital platform that aims to improve mobility in the Mexican capital through data collection and apps. Recently, the government wanted to install GPS trackers to record the peseros' routes and monitor their excess speed; however, short circuits due to varying voltages in their electrical systems meant that most of the devices quickly gave up the ghost.

Attempts to integrate the peseros into the official transport network continue to fail. At the same time, the tentacles of the octopus that is the transport network extend further and further across the city and, with a bit of luck, Olga will make it to the metro by six in the morning. It's rush hour, it's “like a zombie film”, she says indignantly.

In the overcrowded carriages, travellers cling to each other to avoid falling over. If you’re not careful, you'll be swept away by the hordes of people getting on and off the train like a human tidal wave. Olga stands for almost the entire journey. When I ask her how she passes the time, she explains that she has enough to do not to be crushed to death. At the age of 65, Olga has to use the tricks of travelling on the underground: using her elbows to secure herself some space, pushing people back, protecting her backside - from pickpockets, but above all from gropers.

Sexual harassment is a serious problem on the metropolitan underground. A few years ago, the city council tried to solve the problem by introducing the rule that the first two carriages of each metro are exclusively reserved for women and children.

“If you only knew ...”, says Olga. “It's even more uncivilised in the women's carriage. The women rush and push into the carriages. They don't give up their seats if there are older people or children, and if someone complains, they hit them. I prefer to stay with the men, as there is at least a small chance that someone will give me their seat.”

Olga takes the metro to the Agricola Oriental station, the next three stops are closed due to construction work. She gets off and takes the RTP (Red de Transporte de Pasajeros) rail replacement service. Although the underground trains are regularly serviced, they are very worn out and lack money and spare parts.

Resourceful mechanics have already been able to extend the trains’ original lifespan of just 25 years to an astonishing fifty years - about as long as the metro has existed in Mexico City. But in recent years, the progressive deterioration has led to several fatal accidents.